


.sigh.

by unicornball



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU (non-magical), Character Death ("off-screen"), Draco broods a bit, Draco misses his Harry, M/M, Male slash (non-graphic), Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornball/pseuds/unicornball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>Draco Malfoy stared at the ornate urn. He gently stoked a finger down the dull finish, the cold surface causing a shudder to work through him. It happened every time he touched the damn thing. And every time he still did it and every time he jerked his finger away in surprise and rubbed it down his thigh.</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	.sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> _It's been awhile since I've had the time or inclination to participate in the weekly word challenges for the facebook group FanFiction.net Writers Unite! The word: loneliness. For some reason,_ this _is what I came up with. heh. Buuuut I failed to get it done in time to share there, so it was buried and almost forgotten. I decided to share it now... mainly just so I didn't lose it since I didn't wanna delete it._  
>  _So. Uh. Enjoy?_

Draco Malfoy stared at the ornate urn. He gently stoked a finger down the dull finish, the cold surface causing a shudder to work through him. It happened every time he touched the damn thing. And every time he still did it and every time he jerked his finger away in surprise and rubbed it down his thigh.

Now that he had touched it, he could pick it up. It took a bit of maneuvering so he could cradle it to his chest, since his other hand was still clutching his tumbler of Scotch and he wasn't about to set it down. He took a long swallow of it, shuddering lightly and hissing softly through his teeth as the alcohol burned on the way down. He didn't care, he wasn't going to stop drinking it—he liked the burn. It was a reminder he was still alive and breathing.

He snickered softly at himself, a little amused at the morbid turn his thoughts took. His flair for the dramatic when combined with alcohol usually put him in a maudlin mood...

He flopped gracelessly into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. It wasn't yet summer, but the grate was spotless and empty of flickering flames. It was mostly decorative in his home. He sometimes placed decorative logs or bits of seasonal decor in there when he remembered to, though. He didn't find fire very soothing; he hadn't since he had been nearly burned alive when trapped in a burning wing of his high school in his eleventh year.

He shuddered at the memory. He lit up a cigarette, the habit engrained and no longer seemed ironic to him when he was moodily staring at the fireplace. He probably shouldn't find it slightly amusing either... sitting with an urn in his lap while he smoked and thought about the past. But he did—it was probably the Scotch. He tapped the growing ash off into a nearby tray and settled into his chair, his drink forgotten for the moment as his hands were otherwise occupied.

He stared down into his lap, at the urn sitting there shining dully as it lay cradled between his thighs. He stroked a finger down the side again. He sighed softly and reached out for his Scotch, taking another long swallow of his drink. He somehow managed to keep his cigarette pinched between his fingers (and avoiding burning his hair and eyebrows) by stupid luck.

He hated May 10th. He wished he could drink himself into a stupor on the 9th and not awaken until the 11th. But, no, he never quite managed it and by now, he really should've had enough practice dealing with this day to know better. But it didn't really get any easier; just not as sharp or bitingly painful.

He still wasn't sure how to process that... Surely it was normal to 'move on' but it almost felt like he was betraying a memory. He exhaled smoke in a soft exhale, watching the smoke curl and drift up lazily.

It had been almost 9 years since Harry died and time still fucked with him. Sometimes when he thought about it, it felt like he had been gone longer. Other times? Like it was just yesterday. It messed with his sense of time and he hated it. He crushed out his cigarette and took another long swallow of Scotch, draining the glass. He wanted more but he didn't want to get up just yet. He was comfortable in his chair, with his lap full of Harry's ashes.

He closed his eyes and sat there, his head tilted back, trying to remember Harry... and wasn't that just the worst part of May 10th now: he had to _try_. The memories were growing hazy and hard to pull forth. He absently wiped at his face, dimly aware his eyes were leaking a bit, mostly with frustration but also with that ever-present lingering ache of grief, sadness and loneliness. It was bittersweet to realize it wasn't as sharp as it used to be...

He struggled to remember Harry's laugh. He was sure it had always been a full laugh, usually making Harry snort or tear up as he held himself, arms usually wrapped around his middle like he would burst otherwise. He always thought it was amusing that Harry found the dumbest things funny, too. More often than not, he'd laugh at Harry laughing than whatever silly thing had Harry going on like a hyena.

Harry's smell. Even when Harry forgot to wear cologne, he had a unique scent. It was a mixture of his shampoo, laundry detergent and an underlying hint of something spicy, like cinnamon. Draco hadn't taken advantage of sticking his nose in Harry's neck often enough and he missed that smell now that he couldn't inhale it whenever he wanted to.

Harry's warmth. Both his body and his warm personality; Harry was compassionate, almost to his own detriment. He'd smile at perfect strangers, especially children. Draco used to dread the holiday times, knowing Harry would be waving and greeting undeserving strangers and giving them happy smiles because _he_ felt so good because of the festive atmosphere.

He struggled to remember the exact shade of green Harry's eyes were; whether they shifted lighter with happiness or darker with passion (he could no longer remember which it was and it depressed the shit out of him). A soft green of summer leaves most times. A bright smile, and they'd be a springy grass color. A dazzling, beautiful emerald when he smirked playfully.

He wished he could remember it all with sharp clarity, but it was filmy. Hazy. Like he was looking through a dirty window. And it ached, knowing it was slowly slipping away. It wasn't fair that someone he loved so much and held so dear could disperse in his memory like this.

He struggled to remember the way Harry's mouth would twitch up on one side when he was amused but trying to hide it. Or the way his eyes would light up and crinkle a little in the corners when he laughed—even though he was too young to have 'laugh lines'. He felt his chest tighten at that. Harry would never get old enough for those crinkles to deepen... and they _would_ have. Harry had a wicked sense of humor and laughed often.

He wished he had taken more pictures of Harry (especially when he was smiling), but he never got a camera out quick enough to catch the candid moments. Harry didn't like having his picture taken, anyway, so that smile probably would have disappeared into a mock-scowl of disapproval or contorted into a completely goofy face.

Now a days, you couldn't turn around without someone taking a picture or a video of the most random things and unimportant moments. It seemed a waste, really, but he knew it was jealously making him want to sneer with disgust whenever he saw inane photos of someone's sandwich or an odd shaped puddle someone felt the need to document for an unknown reason. Those people didn't know he hated them a little simply because his muse was no longer there to be captured.

He struggled to remember the distinct feeling of Harry's skin under his fingertips. It hadn't been anything unique or sonnet worthy, just _there_ ; warm and firm, relatively smooth and soft. He could vaguely recall the odd pattern of callouses on Harry's fingers, from the unique way he gripped his pens. His thumb often found the hardened dent on Harry's middle finger on the occasions he felt sappy enough to hold hands.

He wished he had spent more time memorizing those things.

He wanted to remember Harry alive and vibrant.

...But other memories tried to force their way in. Harry pale and scared. Those once bright green eyes dulled and bloodshot, stilled. He forced those images away with a shuddering breath, shaking and cursing softly at how easily and vivid _those_ memories were.

He wished he had been more insistent on taking Harry to the hospital when their (first and last) vacation was cut short because Harry couldn't really go more than an hour without needing to sit down. Harry's pale face almost white as he tried to hide the lightheaded feeling, hiding his pain and discomfort like the idiot he was. Draco hadn't put up a fuss or had any issues with finding benches along the way and sitting quietly with Harry, content to sit close together and people watch as Harry caught his breath. He had tried his best to ignore the niggle of unease that told him 'this isn't normal; this isn't OK'.

Who would think the worst about a man that hadn't even celebrated his 21st birthday?

He hated that he never though to check the health of his Harry's heart. It was large, figuratively, but he never imagined it was literally as well. Who would guess such a thing in such a young man?

No one.

He hated that he still remembered the panicked drive, at 3 am, to the emergency room had ended with him leaving alone—shaking and gasping for breath as reality slowly seeped into him. He hated the pitying or understanding looks he had gotten as he tried to make phone calls to people, his hands trembling and occasionally unable to hold the phone. He hated waking their friends and loved ones in the middle of the night to tell them what had happened, unwilling or able to wait, as he stood outside the emergency entrance of the hospital. He hated the numbness in his fingers and lips as he stumbled over his words and tried to speak.

He'd gone through half a packet of cigarettes and dropped his cell phone a dozen times in under an hour. He had plopped down on the curb, right by a parked ambulance, and no one looked twice as he broke down into quiet sobs and gasped for breath, his chest tight and trying to work past the lump in his throat.

Draco sighed, his hand finding the cool metal in his lap. He felt a little guilty he wasn't plagued with these thoughts every day anymore, but it seemed alright, too. He had a feeling Harry would have been pissed if he still did that. He wasn't moping or pining away like some withering heroine in a stupid novel, but he did miss Harry. That hadn't changed at all over the years.

So what if he wasn't ready to 'move on' to someone else? Was there some sort of time frame for these things? He just hadn't found anyone that interested him past a night or two.

He finally got up and poured a small amount of the spiced Rum he kept for just this day. He couldn't stomach the stuff, but it had been Harry's favorite. He smiled a little, remembering a half-drunk Harry posing like some dashing pirate and falling onto his arse and giggling madly, unable to stand but managing to roll onto his hands and knees and into a semblance of an upright posture, still giggling and using him as a post to lean on.

Draco tipped the tumbler at the urn in a salute, murmured a quiet "Harry", and swallowed the amber liquor in one go. He shuddered, breathing in sharply through his teeth as the burn eased. Ugh, wretched swill. He never understood Harry's affection for it.

He sighed again and went to answer the door, only know aware of the banging since the knocking was getting insistent now. He opened it with a sheepish expression, unsure how long he had kept Hermione waiting while he was in his own little world. "Sorry," he said, stepping aside and waving her in.

"No problem," Hermione said brightly, purposely not mentioning the way Draco was holding the urn. It was the reason she came over today, of course, but she was still surprised he had answered the door with it. She smothered the urge to ask after him since Draco rarely took the inquiries with good grace around this time. She also made sure she didn't let her face move into the look he always 'knew' stemmed from pity. It wasn't pity she felt; she felt bad, yes, but she didn't pity him. She wanted him to move on and be happy again. Or at least try to. It couldn't be healthy to be alone for so long...

"So," she said, moving past the blonde and sitting on the sofa. "Do we scatter them today?" she asked, her gaze flicking to the urn for only a moment. It was the ninth time she asked and she was expecting the same answer she'd gotten every other time. She honestly didn't want to push; Harry hadn't made any sort of requests for her to feel compelled to fulfill. 

Draco slowly shook his head and put the urn back on the shelf he kept it on. "No," he said softly, making sure the worn spot matched up with the bottom of the urn. It felt like a morbid script, but he couldn't change it, not just yet. "I know," he said, turning around and giving Hermione a plaintive look. "I just can't... Not yet. Alright?"

He probably never would feel 'ready' and he was quite sure Hermione knew that. She didn't seem disappointed or upset about it, either. He felt a wave of affection for the woman, grateful she was so understanding and supportive when it mattered. He wished that would extend to other issues, but he was realistic enough to know she nagged because she cared. It was one of the few things about Hermione that annoyed the piss out of him, but it was a fair price to pay for all the other pleasant things about the young woman.

"I know. I wouldn't be able to either," Hermione said simply, getting up and giving Draco a hug. She laughed softly when he returned it with only a second-long hesitation. And a slightly awkward pat to her upper back. It was about time the man got over his aversion to hugging. "Well, let's do this," she said, heading towards the front door. She heard Draco following and gave him a pat on the arm once they were both by the door, giving him a small, warm smile. 

It wasn't like they never spent time together, but today was different. Today they went to the place they only went to once a year and enjoyed a silent toast before they ate a grease-laden meal that Draco insisted they enjoy because it had been Harry's favorite. It hadn't surprised her one bit, knowing Harry always did have a questionable palate. She'd never before, or since, met anyone with as deep a fondness of braunschweiger and onions.

Maybe next year they could take the detour to the open field.


End file.
